


So Ceases And Lights On Borrowed Wings

by nothing_rhymes_with_ianto



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:24:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto/pseuds/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bossuet is shot. Joly must tend to him, but there is not much that can be done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Ceases And Lights On Borrowed Wings

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for this. You're all allowed to hate me for breaking your hearts. But I had the idea at work the other day and then I really needed to write it. I did take some liberties with Bossuet's time and manner of death, since in the Brick he did last until the barricade was breached.

Joly did not think that all appeared to be lost until he heard a wordless shout in a familiar voice. He watched his friend stumble back, tumbling down the jumbled construction of the barricade. Smoke and grapeshot whirled around them. Joly grabbed Bossuet under the arms and dragged him to the back of the barricade, back where Enjolras was giving out orders.

There was a small bit of the street not wet from rain, and he laid his friend out there, untying his cravat from about his own neck and hurriedly tying around Bossuet’s arm in an effort to stop at least one point of bleeding. Red was blooming across the injured man’s torso.

“Much thanks, friend,” Bossuet coughed, craning his neck to look at him. His body writhed under the medical student’s hands.

“It is nothing,” Joly responded distractedly. “I just need to get you patched up. Hold still!”

“I will try, but you know me. It is difficult for me to keep still even under normal circumstances.” Bossuet was smiling. There was blood lining the grooves between his teeth.

Joly had opened Laigle’s waistcoat and shirt to get to the wounds. The injured man choked bloody on a yelp when Joly prodded the holes that were bleeding far too much far too quickly. His equipment was all gone, used up by Combeferre or lost in the fray.

“Are you going to practice your lessons upon me? Just take care, my bad luck may pass to you. It is a surprise it has not done so earlier.”

“Hush.” Joly said sharply. His lips were pressed into a thin line.

He was silent as he attempted to assess the bleakness of situation, which had Bossuet pressing a hand to Joly’s shoulder with a small smile.

“Come now, Joly. Where is that worry I’ve grown so fond of? Are you not wary of the dirt we are sitting in?”

Joly gritted his teeth. “There isn’t time for that.”

The smile did not leave Bossuet’s face, though it seemed more strained than before. “I will be fine, friend. It’s just my bad luck, as always, the bastard guignon.”

Joly’s fingers scrabbled in more blood than skin. His tweezers—one of the few supplies that he’d managed to keep on his person—were failing to find the little pellets. He tried to look at Bossuet’s face as well as his work. “Your luck has never been best, true. I fear…” He did not dare name what he feared.

“I’ll come out all right, I always do. Tomorrow Musichetta will be laughing at the both of us for being fools.” Bossuet coughed wetly and made to put a hand to his chest to steady himself. Joly took the hand instead, squeezing it tightly. His face was serious.

“Do not jest, Lesgles. There is not much I can do.”

“Oh, my name.” At Joly’s sharp look, Bossuet’s expression lost its smile but not its light. The hand squeezed weakly back. “I know this.”

The tweezers had fallen away. “I am sorry.”

“It is all right. I did stay.”

Joly brought his other hand up to Bossuet’s cheek. “Oh, what shall I do with you? The Fates seem to have tricked you at all their games of cards.”

“Such is my life.” He gasped a moment for air, until Joly pressed his chest. He caught his breath and gave a sad smile. Joly’s hand went again to his cheek and he brought his other hand—the one not captured tight by Joly’s grip—to press against it. “Dear Jolllly, you may have to give me those extra wings of yours.”

Joly smiled, though tears were in his eyes. “You might have them, if you wish.”

“Many thanks, friend.”

“You shall not deprive me of them for long, I should think.”

Bossuet frowned. “Don’t talk that way.”

“Never mind,” said Joly. “Forget I said it.”

“Done.” He coughed again, more violently, and blood spattered from his mouth instead of saliva. Joly wiped it gently from Bossuet’s cheeks with his sleeve. Bossuet smiled at him again, but his eyes were sad. “I think—I may have been very lucky after all. Ah—”

Bossuet’s hand clenched at Joly’s; he felt the bones creak under his skin, but was almost sure he was squeezing back nearly as hard. He kept a hand against his friend’s shoulder and their gazes locked as Bossuet seized, shook, and fell still.

Joly remained still for several long moments. Enjolras noticed him, but said nothing about losses for gains or requests to mourn brethren after the fight. His leader said nothing and looked away, eyes cast down. Joly stayed on his knees, though his legs had long since gone numb, staring down at the body of his friend. He felt the warm of the hand in his slowly ebb away, until the warmth was from his skin only. He pulled his hand away then. Gently, he extended Bossuet’s limbs from their throes positions and drew soft fingers across his eyelids to close them.

He no longer noticed the battle raging around him. His world had narrowed. Bossuet was motionless beneath him, and Joly wished he could say it looked like he was sleeping. It did not. He leaned down and pressed his lips against the still face, kissing the cheeks, the eyelids, the forehead, the lips. Then he breathed a shaky sigh and stood. He had meant it when he said he would not be long behind.


End file.
